


when peter woke up

by conchorde



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Reunion Fic, This got away from me, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, peter tries to move on and he can't, yet another juno is sad fic i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 23:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15400479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchorde/pseuds/conchorde
Summary: Peter Nureyev could travel to the next planet and the next, where there were always heists to pull and aliases to use, but never anyone like Juno Steel.[Or; five times Peter woke up alone, and one time he didn't.]





	when peter woke up

**Author's Note:**

> SO this was an adventure. I wrote it in all of two days. It got so far away from me it up and turned itself into a 5+1 (which I've never even attempted before). Peter's voice was a gift that just kept giving, and gave me this.

When Peter woke up, the bed was cold.

“Juno?” he murmured, not opening his eyes. He reached over to the far side of the bed, across the cool silk of the sheets.

(In getting this hotel room, Peter had spared no expense for his detective. His hurting, _beautiful_ detective. After everything Peter had put him through, what he had cost him— _his eye, his sharpshooting, his job_ —it was the least he could do, before Peter treated him to every shining city amongst the stars he could think of. Juno may not have known how to take care of himself, but Peter could make up for that in all the ways that mattered.

Opulence was just a nimble movement of his fingers away, after all.

He could lift whatever he pleased, take whatever name he wanted. He could leave his Brahman street days far behind him and travel to the next planet and the next, where there were always heists to pull and aliases to use, but never, _never_ anyone like Juno Steel.)

Peter reached and his slender fingers met nothing but air.

He opened his eyes.

Their hotel room was bathed in the weak pre-dawn light that crept through the semi-closed curtains. Peter could make out the outlines of the room—a chair here, an armoire there, a discarded jacket draped over the bedpost.

Peter could make out outline of the bed, too. Juno’s side was empty.

His heart clenched.

“Juno?” he said, louder this time.

Peter flicked on a light. Yes, the outlines of the room were the same—chair, armoire, jacket—but there was a coldness surrounding him that wasn’t present in the darkness. A certainty that made him want to curl up underneath the comforter discarded on the floor and return to the world he knew before he woke up.

“Juno?” Peter asked the room, one last time. He already knew the answer he would receive, but he called out nonetheless.

Peter slid quietly out from under the sheets. He padded onto the carpeting, masking his footsteps out of habit ( _Lesson one of thieving_ , Mag whispered in the back of his brain, _a master thief makes no sound_ ), and examined the room. He catalogued his environment as if he were casing it to rob. Slowly, carefully, not missing a thing.

His clothes were absent. The bathroom, empty. There was no note.

Juno Steel was gone.

Peter sat down heavily on the bed, where Juno would have last sat before he left. For a moment, Peter imagined the world the way it would have looked for Juno. The room basked in darkness with just a sliver of neon light creeping across the floor. Perhaps he had heard the siren of a passing HCPD patrol or the shouts of passersby. Lover by his side, aching from days of sleep-deprivation and torture, poised on the precipice of an uncertain new future.

They were two fools, fallen in love, but only one was really ready to leave this world behind forever.

“Juno, you impossible idiot,” he whispered, feeling a hot pinprick in his eyes, a catch in the back of his throat. “You impossible, impossible idiot.”

Because Peter would have stayed on Mars, with Juno, if he needed to stay. If Juno needed more time to think about leaving. Peter couldn’t have stayed forever—outstanding arrest warrants would do that—but for enough time. For enough time for Juno to be honest with Peter. For enough time for Juno to be honest with himself.

Then, Peter remembered Juno’s words, from days ago, back in Miasma’s tomb. _You want to get your hands off me? This isn’t a goddamn honeymoon suite._

His words rang in Peter’s head. Not a goddamn honeymoon suite, indeed.

Juno had taken one look at his memory, back under the Martian desert, at the memory of the worst and best day of Peter’s life, and decided that Peter Nureyev’s baggage was not in fact worth his time. Juno had already decided that Peter wasn’t worth his time when Peter asked him—hadn’t tried to pressure him, but perhaps he hadn’t succeeded—to come explore the stars in a beautiful new future.

Who wouldn’t say yes to freedom, to adventure, to the stars with a man you had just spent days locked in a cell with? When you had faced almost certain death and came out on the other side victorious? When the only real thing you wanted was to feel the sun again, to breathe the filtered air of the Martian surface and lay in a soft bed with someone you love, Peter wagered he would say yes to anything.

If Peter Nureyev was not worth Juno Steel’s time, then Peter Nureyev was not worth Peter Nureyev’s time.

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Peter stood. Showered quickly, the bathroom filling with the citrus scent of whatever shampoo the hotel had provided. Not his usual cologne, regrettably, but it would have to do until he could stop by the Outer Rim. Pulled on the bloody, filthy clothes from Miasma’s tomb that he would rather not wear again. Cleaned and replaced his knives on his person. Wiped down all the surfaces of the room—anything he might have touched—with an alcohol-infused wipe from the depths of his pocket.

Peter performed mechanical actions. Things he had done a hundred times before and would do a hundred times again. Acts ingrained in the man Peter had carefully forged out of the boy from Brahma.

When Peter closed the door to the hotel room, he left Peter Nureyev behind him. He left Peter Nureyev behind, on the edge of blissful sleep, fingers intertwined in Juno’s hair, whispering that _call him a fool, but he may have fallen in love_ _with Juno Steel_.

He checked out of the hotel quickly, putting on the charming façade of Duke Rose that his heart wasn’t really in, and finally stepped out onto the cobblestones of Hyperion City. The same cobblestones Juno had walked upon, assuming he went out the front door rather than the window.

If Juno had made it out his office window the first time, back when they first met, Peter supposed there would never have had to have been a second time.

Peter knew it would take him exactly one hour and six minutes from where he stood presently in the doorway of the hotel until he was looking down at Mars from orbit. With a stop by a tailor, a new forged interplanetary passport, one twelve minute taxi to the Hyperion City transportation station and one thirty-two minute transport plane, Peter Nureyev would become Arthur Bell, the cold, reclusive heir to the Ganymedeian diamonds who had a string of lovers a mile long.

Just like that, Peter would be Arthur and Arthur would be on his way to the Venusian casinos to relax, order pear martinis, and find an easy lay. Perhaps while he was there, Arthur would stop by the legendary collection of Baltis Vallis oil paintings. And if they went missing? Well, Peter Nureyev had certainly never been to Venus and couldn’t be held accountable for the actions of one Arthur Bell.

Peter took a deep breath. Every place had their quirks; every planet tasted different. Brahma tasted sweet, at first like nectarines, but with undertones of copper and blood. Amaterasu tasted bright and hopeful, like the sun on a spring day. Mars tasted like perpetual dust and loneliness and Juno Steel.

He would do this. Obey Juno’s last, unspoken wish, and leave Hyperion City for good. He would leave alone and never return, never look back. Never contact Juno again.

Peter would leave, but not just yet. He allowed himself fifteen minutes to walk the streets of Hyperion City. To memorize its pavement and walls and heartbeat. To forever etch onto his heart the distance between this hotel and Juno’s apartment, with every neon advertisement and brandished blaster between. To say goodbye.

He walked the streets carefully, remembering what he saw. Imagining that _this sign_ or _that building_ Juno had seen on his way out of Peter’s life. The streets were cold and unforgiving, and everyone he saw had these harried expressions, like they wanted to be anywhere else but could never imagine leaving. He swore he saw two thefts and a murder in the span of four minutes.

Peter could see why Juno loved this city.

When his fifteen minutes were up, Peter stopped into the first clothing store he saw, pasted a smile onto his face, and charmed the tailor into giving him not one but three well-made suits free of charge. Arthur had that effect on everyone; he always got what he wanted. Peter? Not so much.

Peter transferred the contents of his pockets of his bloodstained clothes to the nicest suit of the three. Eight knives of varying shapes and sizes, one packet of alcohol wipes, one red lip stain, one half of a sandwich, the correct papers for five completely new identities, six scraps of paper with doodles made by one black pen, one lighter and one pair of diamond earrings. All of his worldly possessions.

He dropped his old clothes into a trashcan outside of the tailor’s shop and burned away the remnants of Peter Nureyev with the click of his lighter.

Peter Nureyev would stay on Mars, he thought as he stepped onto the transport plane. Peter Nureyev would stay on Mars only in name, only on the lips of Juno Steel, and he would travel the galaxy nameless once more.

* * *

When Peter woke up, he was alone.

He’d expected to wake alone, this time around.

The soft light of the sunrise from the Alpha Centauri star system hit his pillow. He cracked open an eye. His rented room was basked in a peach glow seeping through the warped windowpane. The small window in the corner of the room was propped open, its shutters swinging in the morning breeze. Far below him—forty-six floors and counting, since the city was forever building up—Peter heard the sounds of a metropolis waking: hawkers selling their wares; a traveling jazz band crossing the square; the incessant honking of the hovertram; government-mandated intercom announcements every ten minutes.

The largest city on the third planet from the twin Alpha Centauri suns wasn’t exactly paradise, but it was enough that he could get caught up in the ways of the average citizen of Wiboarda. There were enough glittering gems on the throats of royalty and quick foxtrots at masquerades to distract Peter. There were enough locals in his bed who didn’t practice monogamous relationships. There were enough heists to pull and enough time to get caught up in the haunting memories of Brahma—reminded of the lasers striking indiscriminately from the sky whenever he heard the intercom announcements.

There were enough flashing colors and gentle songs to distract Peter from Juno, he told himself. But that didn’t make it true.

Peter rolled out of bed, his body aching from the job he did the night before. The rough sheets (they had never heard of silk in Wiboarda; what a shame) had agitated the knife wound in his side, and he stood shakily. The golden-colored room spun for just a moment.

(He had never let anyone turn his knives on him before. It was sloppy work, he had chided himself later, to let himself be nicked by his own blade. _Lesson one of thieving_ , he had heard Mag say in his head as the knife slit his side. _Don’t let your opponent get your weapon._

He was not keen to let it happen again.

Before Peter could stab him, to gut him quietly in the back alleyway of the renowned museum he would be entering shortly, the security guard had turned. All it took was a moment and the knife drew blood. All it took was Peter seeing Juno in the man’s face for the barest of instances—seeing Juno in the man’s nose broken twice over and in his hunched stance—for his own sharp knife to end up scraping his ribs.

The man hadn’t been Juno, Peter had confirmed before he slit the man’s throat and broke into the museum. He took three more lives and priceless artifacts before he stole away into the night, back into his rented room to bleed and hurt alone.)

Peter glanced across the tiny room he had rented for seventeen stolen creds a night, taking in the narrow, creaking bed and the battered wardrobe. He had always either lived in abject poverty or sublime decadence; there was no in-between. When he was out every shred of interplanetary currency and down three knives from a botched job in the Outer Rim because of false information and bad associates, he had resorted to his roots.

He had taken the first room he could find in Wiboarda. It was a shabby thing on the outskirts of town. He had thought about conning the staff of the most expensive hotel in the heart of the city into giving him a room free of charge when he first stepped off the transport plane, but thought better of it. It would have been far more fun with a certain lady on his arm who would scoff and roll his eyes but would be tucked close to Peter’s side nonetheless.

Peter had a hard time enjoying the universe these days.

Across the room, past the bed with the bloodstain from his knife wound, three priceless vases were lined up against the mirror. Old vases, vases of Alpha Centaurian antiquity that had only recently surfaced from an archaeological dig, and had only recently disappeared under the cover of night.

But when the authorities inevitably came looking for the vases, knocking on the door of the elderly landlady from whom Peter had rented a room, Ares Lake would be long gone. Peter Nureyev had certainly never been to Wiboarda, and the only lead the cops would be left with was a certain signature scent from the Outer Rim.

Peter had gone through the actions automatically. Took on a new alias, planned the heist (cased the museum, memorized the guard routes, charmed the receptionist through the face and sharp smile of Ares Lake, eccentric art collector from way over by Wolf 359, thanks very much for asking), and slipped in and out before anyone noticed.

It had been weeks since Peter had heard someone utter his name—his _real_ name—and he’d forgotten how much he’d missed it in all those years of anonymity. He wasn’t sure if he remembered what it sounded like, now that it was probably forgotten on the tongue of the only other living man in the galaxy who knew its five syllables well enough to place a name to the face.

Peter had tried to forget Juno Steel. He really had, but _damn_ if it wasn’t hard to forget the man you had fallen in love with.

Peter shook his head. He tried to clear it of Juno Steel. Failed. He had a job to finish, and thoughts of Juno’s scarred knuckles, Juno’s soft lips, Juno’s stubborn spirit were not helping.

He walked over to the cramped bathroom, changed the bandage on his ribs, and made a mental note to schedule a scar removal appointment back on the far side of the asteroid belt. No identifiers, no scars. Peter would retain his anonymity if it killed him. Without a word, he swiftly collected all of the bloodstained cloth from the room and burned it in the rusty bathtub. He performed a quick count of his remaining knives, wiped the room clean of his prints, tossed on a slim jacket, and left with priceless vases in hand.

Ares Lake had antiquities to fence, and Peter Nureyev had thoughts to bleach from his mind.

* * *

When Peter woke up, he heard the jangling of chains.

The bench below his cheek was cold and hard, and all Peter could smell was the harsh scent of vomit. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He knew what scene he would be greeted with.

He did anyway.

The harsh fluorescent light streamed down from the ceiling into Peter’s cell. It was a cell, all right. There was no getting around that. An imposing steel door with barred, blaster-proof windows; the uncomfortable bench he found himself on; a filthy bucket in the corner.

All in all, Peter had stayed in far better accommodations.

He heard a rustle of movement from outside the door, and his head shot up. He made to stand, to greet the guards who were probably coming in to his cell either give him that afternoon’s gruel or to give him the beating of his life—the prison system near Spica needed serious reform—but _ah, yes_ , the chains on his wrists yanked him back.

How unpleasant.

As he watched the door slowly swing open, after hearing the soft _clink_ of the keys, his mind whirled. Peter wagered he’d only been in this cell for a few hours, if his internal clock could still be relied upon, and he’d been asleep for most of it (pulling off a nigh-impossible three night job would do that to him). Not nearly enough time to get a feel for the prison, or his cell for that matter, but perhaps enough time to convincingly bluff. Enough time to convince the guards that they _clearly_ had the wrong man— _they were talking to Rue Blythe, for heaven’s sake, didn’t they know who he was?_ Enough time to return to Krishna and retrieve the stolen independence papers in time to reach the drop point.

If that didn’t work, well…Peter knew of two uses for the heavy metal keys that would be attached to the guards’ belts.

“This really is unacceptable, my good sirs,” Peter began smoothly. He took on a faint accent at the last moment, as he decided Rue Blythe had been raised in the highlands, with rounded vowels placed carefully on his tongue. “I demand to speak to your supervisor.”

The two guards stopped in their tracks, leaving the door wide open. They really were stupid brutes, Peter observed distantly, trying vainly to ignore his dry throat and the faint tremor in his hands ( _Lesson one of thieving: forget your fears_ ). Perhaps in another few months Peter could return to Spica to oversee the overhaul of the prison system, and perhaps while he was there, he could check out the famed prison safes.

“I’m sorry, who are you supposed to be?” said the woman on the left, crossing her arms. _Good_ , Peter thought. They were put off their rhythm. Perhaps enough that they would be so enraptured in the tale he would spin out of thin air—Rue Blythe was the long-lost heir to the nearly-forgotten Spica dynasty, come home at last—that they wouldn’t notice him picking the lock on his handcuffs with a hairpin he kept stitched in his back pocket for this exact situation.

Peter smiled widely, showing off his shark’s teeth. “I’m so glad you asked.”

In a matter of seven minutes, Peter had charmed the two guards, removed his cuffs, taken the keys and locked them in the cell that was his for all of five hours, give or take.

“Hey!” said the man on the right as Peter closed the door quickly behind him, locking it with a flourish of his hand. “Hey, that’s not supposed to happen!”

“Perhaps not,” Peter replied, his shark’s smile growing larger by the second. He gave the two of them one last glance as he pocketed the keys. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape. _Good_ , Peter thought. _Stay that way; easy to dupe._ “But it just happened, unfortunately for you. Enjoy your stay. I’ve heard the gruel is really something to look forward to.”

Pete turned sharply on his tall heels and didn’t look back. He had a deadline to meet and a memory to forget. The last time he was in handcuffs— _Juno’s lips on his, writing a note with his true name, the waiting siren of the HCPD_.

As he walked out the prison and into the sunlight, Peter tried to forget.

* * *

When Peter woke up, the cucumbers had fallen off of his eyelids.

They were sliding down his face. Slowly, surely, making their way towards the ground. Peter grabbed at them with nimble fingers and quickly saved them from their fatal dance. He popped them into his mouth.

Ah, yes. Peter remembered how much he hated cucumbers on this planet. They tasted like what he imagined the early settlers of Amaterasu had eaten, back two hundred ago: dry, like dirt. Not at all how he preferred his cucumbers.

But his current persona, Indigo Lance, just adored these horrid cucumbers, just as much as he loved the spas on Amaterasu. Peter acknowledged that they were, in fact, like nothing else in the galaxy. Halfway between the black hole (and black market) at the center of the Milky Way and the Outer Rim, the Amaterasuian spas were filled with beings from everywhere who had come to relax and soak up the red light of the sun.

Additionally, the Amaterasuian vaults were like nothing else in the galaxy. Safely behind a state-of-the-art security system, they held the finest gems and stones, most valuable documents and deadly weapons to be found for thousands of miles. And he’d been hired anonymously by some rich princess over on Io to steal the diamonds of Ganymede before next Thursday. When Peter had spoken with her over his burner comms, the woman had talked about how they were allegedly set to fall into the hands of a certain Arthur Bell, the reclusive heir set to inherit Bell Enterprises upon the death of his father, and she wanted those diamonds before that happened.

Peter had found _that_ all sorts of hilarious, but had taken the job. The diamonds did in fact exist, but definitely did not belong to Arthur Bell.

Not yet, anyway.

(When he’d arrived, diamond earrings flashing as he stepped off the transport plane in the finest suit he could find—the tailors on Io made the best suits this side of the galaxy—the receptionist had dully asked him if he’d like to put anything in the vault. Peter had smiled the slow, sharp smile of Indigo Lance, just to watch the receptionist squirm. It wasn’t like he had arrived with any luggage at all—he traveled light, always. It certainly wasn’t like he had anything of real value besides his full set of knives that never left his person and his memories of Juno Steel.

Peter merely insinuated, in the extremely flirtatious, extremely dangerous way of Indigo Lance, that _he_ should be placed in the vault, because he was the most valuable thing in the spa.)

Above him, the computer-automated clear blue sky of Amaterasu opened up; not an artificial cloud in view that afternoon. Peter sat up on his palm pool chair, looking out. The oblong pool, stretching far out into the distance, was relatively empty, with only a few candy-colored umbrellas popped open to shield the spa-goers from the sun.

Peter scanned the poolside quickly, methodically, but didn’t see his mark: a tall woman by the name of name of Eva Ruan. The actual unknown heir to the Ganymedeian diamonds, and the only woman at this spa who would have the correct fingerprints to open the vault in which they were held.

Frowning, he reached without looking for whatever fruity martini the bartender had made him that morning that he had placed at the table at his elbow, and came up empty.

“Looking for this?”

Peter turned, startled, and there she was. Sipping on the strawberry-infused vodka over ice, her lips a berry pink. She perched on the edge of the nearest pool chair, wearing quite possibly the smallest swimsuit Peter had ever seen in his life ( _this is Amaterasu_ , he reminded himself, _where anything goes_ ). Her dark eyes tracked his movements.

“Why, I believe that’s mine, Ms. Ruan,” Peter said, recovering quickly. He spoke in the voice of Indigo Lance: deep, booming, powerful. A man whose eyes said _seduction_ while his fingers said _unpredictable_. Peter reached for his drink.

Eva looked shocked, for just a moment, before she pulled the drink just out of his reach. “I believe you owe me something first.”

“And what’s that?” Peter asked, dropping his voice even farther, and dropping his hands from reaching for his drink to resting on her knees.

“You know my name, sir,” she said, pressing the straw of Peter’s drink once more to her lips. “It’s only fair that you tell me yours. And if you’re going to take this drink from my hands, you might as well buy me another one.”

And Peter smiled that shark’s smile, because he knew this would be quite possibly the easiest theft he would pull off for weeks. “Of course, Ms. Ruan. You can call me Indigo Lance, and it would be my absolute pleasure to purchase you a drink.”

Peter only had to buy Eva Ruan one drink before she had her hands all over him. The pool guards gave them one too many glances in their shared pool chair, so she asked and he accepted, and they took the glass elevator up to her room.

Peter gave her the most memorable evening of her year. His heart wasn’t in it, but she would never have been able to tell.

After, he pulled a trick out of a book from a man he used to know.

When he knew she was fast asleep, he slipped out from under the sheets. Working quickly, quietly, as he had for years, Peter took Eva’s fingerprints and found the key code to her safe that was scrawled carelessly on the hotel notepad. He pulled on his clothes, replaced his knives, and closed the door behind him.

She never stirred, and in fifty minutes (five minutes longer than he had planned—he made an unscheduled stop by the bar for one more of those fruity cocktails, since he never finished his), Peter had all of the Ganymedeian diamonds tucked safely in the pocket under his left breast lapel and was on his way out the door.

Peter hopped on the next transport plane out of Amaterasu to collect his reward. His mind should have been full of diamonds and more creds than he had seen in weeks, of secret trysts and stolen drinks, but all he could think about was a certain man who had loved and left the same way Peter just had.

All he could think about was his heart, who was roughly half a galaxy away and probably nursing a stiff glass of cheap whiskey in an office that had seen better days. Who knew the five short syllables of his name, unlike Eva, unlike any of the poor marks he had taken to bed. But like those marks, Juno Steel would never be uttering the name Peter Nureyev again.

And if he did? Well, Peter never planned to be there to hear it.

* * *

When Peter woke up, he heard sirens.

His eyes snapped open on instinct. His hands scrabbled for purchase on the cobblestoned alleyway, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he stared unseeing at the cloudy, smog-filled sky. Dazed, but only for a moment before he sat up. He cast a glance around, eyes wild.

He took in the grim alleyway he found himself in with one look. It ranked among the most typical alleyways Peter had found himself in, albeit it was a bit cleaner than the usual. At least five trash cans, several blue-painted doors leading into cramped apartments, one skittering creature Peter didn’t care to identify, and one stunned thief.

Peter’s spine ached and for one long moment, he wanted to stay in that alleyway forever.

Falling from the roof that arched down the end of the alleyway would do that to a master thief’s back. While Peter had never let go of the small satchel containing the results of his latest job—one advanced copy of the latest comms system—he had relinquished control over his balance to gravity for only the briefest of moments ( _Rule one of thieving,_ Mag’s voice said in Peter’s ear as he fell through air, _stay on your feet_ ) and regretted it from the moment his feet left the tiled roof.

He swore the sirens were getting closer.

He knew those sirens.

Peter quickly pushed himself to his feet and shoved the parcel deep into one of his pockets where he hoped his fifth-longest knife wouldn’t damage the contents too much. With one harried glance down the alleyway, out onto the thoroughfare that ran through the well-off part of town, where Peter had just become intimately familiar with the contents of one mansion, he reached for the wall. Quickly, nimbly, as only a well-trained thief could, Peter scaled the fifteen-foot wall.

He knew he made it look effortless.

He dropped to the other side carefully, swinging briefly on a stone pushing its way out from the wall. Peter landed in the same gentle crouch that Mag had told him all those years ago would destroy his knees, but here he was twenty-odd years later, and his knees were just as fine as ever.

If there was one thing Peter knew, it was how to use his body to his advantage. In more ways than one, he thought absently, as he took in his new surroundings.

The continuation of the alleyway on the other side of the wall was much closer to the ones which Peter was accustomed. It almost reminded him of Brahma, of growing up on the forlorn streets and ducking into alleyways exactly like this one on cold, unfriendly nights.

He may have scaled the wall and entered a rougher part of town, but Peter could still hear those familiar sirens.

With a brief pause to brush off his lean, black jacket (that hugged his figure quite well, if you asked him) with gloved hands, Peter strode down the narrow cobblestoned street. He made not a sound.

Just as he left the mouth of the alleyway, a figure surged up out of the darkness. Peter caught sight of a dulled silver blaster and heard a brief cry before all the breath left his lungs. The assailant tackled Peter, dragging him to the ground.

His head connected with the shattered sidewalk, and above him, a woman stood, a crazed look in her eye. Dark, greasy hair floated about her head like a halo— _or was that a concussion speaking?_ —and she was pointing the scratched blaster at Peter’s head.

What a lovely part of town.

Peter didn’t move a muscle. The sirens were getting louder, he could swear it. “I’m sorry, what is it that you wanted? I have places to be, you see, and I would really appreciate if we could be brief about this.”

She cocked her head. _Right_ , he remembered. Taking the overtly pleasant approach wasn’t the best way to approach violent assailants. “I said, give me your money!”

Her voice sounded young, and he felt a pang of regret for what he was about to do. “Ah, of course, my dear. Just give me a moment.” Peter reached into his jacket pocket, and she started gesturing wildly with that gun. Peter fought the urge to roll his eyes as he carefully raised his hands, showing that he meant no harm. “I’m just getting my billfold for you, darling.”

The woman paused, and Peter froze for a half second, because she was still gesticulating far too much with that blaster and he was quite certain she had no idea how to use it. “I—okay. Just be fast about it,” she concluded with a nod, glancing around the alleyway.

Perhaps she heard the sirens too, but Peter wasn’t so sure—he’d gotten his hearing enhanced on his last trip to the Outer Rim in return for finishing a job for a particularly eccentric audiologist. “Of course, my dear. I, too, would prefer if this exchange went as quick as possible.”

Peter never carried a billfold. He never carried creds or any other denomination, since he switched currencies so quickly. Almost daily, some weeks.

It was far easier to just take what he needed the moment he arrived.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, and gutted the woman where she stood.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, but I really must be going,” said Peter softly, into her ear, covering her mouth before she cried out. Kicking away her blaster from where it fell, he gently laid her down in the alley he had just climbed out of. He removed his knife from her abdomen, ignoring her cry of pain, and wiped it on a cleaning cloth he pulled from a pocket. He turned to go.

“Why—”

Peter looked back at the woman, regret in his eyes. “Like I said, darling. I really must be going. It’s nothing personal, I promise you.” The sirens were getting closer with every second. After a moment’s hesitation, after looking at the woman’s pained expression, he pressed one of his unused burner phones he had been carrying of late into her hand. He knelt next to her, speaking quickly and quietly. “Call someone. The authorities, the hospital, your mother. I don’t care. I didn’t hit any major organs, I promise you that.”

With that, Peter stepped off into the night.

The sirens were far closer now, far closer than he would have liked, and he increased his pace. He crossed town, putting the uneven city blocks between himself and the scene of his crime (the first one, the one the police had been called for when Peter tripped the wrong security alarm when he was grabbing the comms box off of the executive’s desk). He wasn’t running, but it was a close thing when he saw the bright red and blue lights of the police round the corner.

Somehow, this street was familiar. He recognized those neon advertisements and that trash can, from a night that he remembered like it were lost in a dream. He looked up.

Peter knew that building.

(Peter had never intended to come back to Hyperion City. He had intended to keep his promise, to obey the last unspoken wish of a certain detective, but when this job had come up, he couldn’t say no, and not only because of the literal knife to his throat when he was asked. Demanded, rather, but Peter had accepted the job offer nonetheless. While the payout was simply allowing him to keep his life, Peter tried his best to make a habit of not pissing off Jupiterian executives with powerful friends.

He had intended to keep his promise, but when he was told to return to Mars, Peter just couldn’t say no.

It was what he had wanted for _so long_ , and Peter Nureyev chased what he wanted, always.)

The blue and red lights were getting closer, and Peter had no choice.

He scaled the fire escape.

It took him thirty-five seconds to reach the fourth floor, and even less time to jimmy open the unlocked window ( _always unlocked, when did he ever learn?_ ).

It had been what felt like years, but Peter Nureyev’s boots touched the living room floor belonging to one Juno Steel in an instant.

The room was dark. Granted, it was past three in the morning, but if Peter knew anything about his detective, it was that he kept odd hours.

The room was dark and smelled like faded leather, stale sweat, and whiskey. Peter glanced around the room, and honestly, nothing had changed from the last time he had broken into Juno’s apartment. Loose case files and scrap paper littered the furniture (a particularly large stack sat in the chair Peter knew for a fact was the least comfortable in the apartment); takeout boxes sat molding on the kitchen counter. A few more glasses on the living room table, perhaps. A few more empty bottles, but otherwise? It was like Juno’s apartment had been preserved in time.

Peter found himself transported back to the first time he set foot in Juno’s apartment. It came in a rush, the memories. A drink, a kiss, a pair of handcuffs. Peter had gotten into the squad car of the HCPD, hoping that Juno read the note he scribbled hastily on a scrap of paper. Pulling off another daring escape, but this time for an audience.

If Peter thought too much about it, he found his hands began to shake with minute tremors, because _he was in Juno’s apartment_ and _Juno had left him behind._

The sirens of the HCPD were still loud outside, and Peter sat down in the nearest chair he could find. He almost poured himself a drink, but thought better of it, and settled in to wait.

Peter didn’t have to wait long.

In less than fifteen minutes, Peter heard the scraping of well-worn keys into the analog lock on the door. The beeping of the electronic locks he was sure Rita had installed.

The handle of the door turned, and Juno Steel stepped inside.

Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Juno was just as handsome, just as beautiful and rugged as he remembered. He had one eye, covered by an eyepatch (he felt a twinge of guilt surge through him), a nose that had been broken a few too many times, and the softest lips in the galaxy. Yes, Juno was just how Peter remembered.

He looked just as tired as Peter remembered, too. Weary from getting too little sleep, from carrying the weight of the world, from the pressure of solving the crimes of Hyperion City resting on his shoulders. He seemed a bit like he hadn’t slept since Peter had seen him last, back in the hotel room bathed in neon light, and in all honesty, Peter wasn’t sure if he had.

The detective shut the door behind him, flipped the locks back and shrugged out of his long, worn coat. Peter could see the stress in his shoulders, in the sigh that worked its way out of his chest. Juno turned to toss his on the chair Peter was sitting in, and froze just as the jacket left his hand.

As he caught sight of Peter.

Peter caught the coat effortlessly. He stood without a word but didn’t trust himself just then to look at the detective. He arranged the coat on the chair instead.

“Nur—Nureyev?”

The name came out hoarse. Broken. Ragged. Like it had been drawn out of the depths of Juno’s soul, hidden deep underneath years-long hurts and regrets.

It was the most beautiful thing Peter Nureyev had ever heard in his life.

He looked up, and met Juno’s eyes.

Juno was wrecked. Peter took in the blackened eye and bruised cheekbone, the angry red cut that crossed his jaw and his tousled, sim-wind brushed hair. Juno looked like he hadn’t slept in days, hadn’t consumed anything that wasn’t cheap liquor for about as long. Peter could see the how the perpetual tiredness had seeped into his bones.

But mostly, Juno was the sight he had missed the most in the galaxy.

Peter took a step forward, and Juno took a step back.

Peter tried to control the hurt that coursed through him because _of course Juno still didn’t want him_ , and stilled. Stilled his legs, his body, his face.

Peter stilled, and waited.

Juno ran a hand over his face. He didn’t look at Peter, casting his eyes to the floor, to the windows, to the flashing lights far below. He took a deep breath. “Wh—what the hell are you doing here? It’s nearly four in the goddamn morning, Nureyev and—”

Peter heard the rest of Juno’s unspoken sentence: _and it’s been months since I left._

But Peter’s heart didn’t care; it sang every time Juno said his name.

Peter tried to control the growing sharp smile on his face, but couldn’t. “Oh, I ran into a bit of trouble downstairs, detective. I _am_ sorry to inconvenience you like this, but it was either stop by your lovely apartment or become intimately familiar with the police chief, and I thought this was the better option.”

A flush rose on Juno’s cheeks, and Peter knew he was smirking but he didn’t care. Juno’s eyes had widened as Peter had gone on, and he reached out to the doorframe to steady himself. Like Juno couldn’t quite believe Peter was in fact standing before him, in his apartment, looking like—what was it Juno had said?—like he had _swung in on a beam of goddamn starlight._

“Oh, and did I mention? They might be stopping by here shortly—” Peter paused as they both heard pounding footsteps up the stairwell through the thin walls, “—so perhaps you’d better dissuade them from entering your apartment, hmm?”

“Of course you did,” Juno muttered, staring at the floor. He shook his head, like he couldn’t quite believe it, and then jumped when there was a sharp pounding on his door.

“HCPD, open up!” came the barking voice from behind the door.

Juno glanced up at Peter, and then gestured for him to duck into the kitchen, where he wouldn’t be visible from the door. Peter complied, standing just out of sight, hand on his easiest to access knife, when he heard the door creak open.

“Oh, Steel, it’s you,” Peter heard a boisterous voice call with a volume far too loud for Juno’s cramped apartment.

Peter imagined Juno cringing at the volume, then running a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to right some of his appearance because Peter knew he still cared what the HCPD thought of him, no matter what he said. “Yeah, Khan, it’s me. I live here; you know that. Keep your goddamn voice down, alright? I don’t want piss off my landlady.”

“Oh, right. Sorry,” the man said, attempting to lower his voice but honestly not succeeding in the least. “You seen this man tonight? He’s a real dangerous criminal.”

Peter heard the rustle of paper. “The hell is this? No, I haven’t seen him. What do you think I do all day?”

“Well,” Peter heard the man pause, trying to make a cohesive argument. “You’re awake at this time of night, aren’t you? And you’ve got that black eye and that whole shifty demeanor about you, Steel.”

Peter was quite sure Juno was glaring at this man. “I’m a private citizen, Khan, I can do what I please. If you’re so goddamn interested about why I’m up at four in the morning, then fine, I’ll tell you. I was tailing a lead on the Hopper case, alright?”

“But that still doesn’t explain the black eye—”

Juno let out the longest exhale Peter had heard in a long time. “If you’re done making comments about my appearance, I’d like to go to bed. I’ve been awake for over thirty-six hours and I have exactly five more seconds left on the Tolerate the HCPD Asking Me Unnecessary Questions timer.”

The man the other side of the door _humphed_. “I’d still like to come in and—”

Juno cut him off for the second time. “If you want to come into my apartment, you can get a warrant, Khan. Good luck finding your mystery man.”

Juno slammed the door. Peter heard a heavy sigh, and the flicking of the locks once more.

Peter waited a moment before carefully stepping out from behind the column in the kitchen. Juno was standing with his forehead against the door and looked ready to pass out.

Peter cleared his throat, and Juno jumped, turning. He took one look at Peter and pushed past him to the kitchen. Juno pulled out a bottle of indiscriminate alcohol from the sink, forgoing the nearest semi-clean glass, and drank.

Peter said nothing.

After a long moment, Juno set the bottle down. He unevenly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and leaned against the counter. He faced Peter tentatively, as if he were walking out into a dust storm and had forgotten his coat.

 “Listen, Nureyev,” Juno began quietly. He still didn’t look at Peter, casting his eyes to the linoleum that probably hadn’t been properly washed since before Juno had moved in. His voice was rough and uncertain but Peter’s pulse raced in his veins when he heard Juno Steel say his name. “I’m so sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry. I didn’t mean to leave like that. It was unforgivable and I’ve regretted it every night since and _goddamnit, Nureyev_ —”

Juno’s voice broke, taking Peter’s heart along with him.

 “Nureyev, I—” He cleared his throat and tried to begin again. “I understand if you don’t want to be near me anymore. If you don’t want to see me again. I left you and I’ve been sorry about it for months. I never deserved you, from the moment I met you back on the mask case, alright? You were a gift I didn’t deserve, and I’m _so goddamn sorry_.”

Peter took a step towards Juno, closing the gap between them, and Juno flinched.

Juno was leaning away from Peter, pushing his back into the glass bottles that crowded his sink, trying to make himself small. He had turned his head, closed his eyes. Braced himself.

Peter stilled for the second time.

Juno thought Peter was going to hit him.

Slowly, carefully, taking every ounce of restraint that Peter had instilled in himself from years of training, he took Juno’s hands in his.

Juno jolted slightly at the gentle contact ( _how long had it been since someone had touched Juno out of love rather than malice_?), and looked down to his hands, taken in Peter’s slender fingers. Stared at Peter’s hand, like it might disappear unless Juno paid it enough attention.

“Juno,” Peter began, just as haltingly as Juno had before. Juno blanched at Peter’s words, and it occurred to him that Peter hadn’t said his name in months. Not since that night, back in the hotel room. “Juno, _I_ am the one that should be sorry.”

“What?” Juno started. He untangled himself from Peter’s embrace, shaking his head. Pushed himself away, “Nureyev, I was the one that left, remember? I was the one that didn’t deserve—”

“Juno,” Peter repeated, trying not to raise his voice. His eyes tracked Juno’s movements. They bordered on frantic.

“I mean, how could I? Me, the screwed-up, one-eyed detective, who has never even left Mars, never even left _Hyperion City_ ,” Juno faced Peter, and he was shaking. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and Peter wanted nothing more than to take his hand and kiss every one of his scarred fingers. “You’re too good for me. A goddamn gift I never deserved. I’ve gotten more people killed that I’d like to count, Nureyev, and that’s just about all I’ve done with my life.”

“ _Juno_ ,” Peter said, and anger surged through his words. Juno flinched, stepping away, and Peter felt a stab of guilt. He sighed, and started again. “Juno, you impossible idiot.”

“I—what?”

“It is _I_ who should be apologizing to you, my dear detective,” Peter said again, and the words finally registered with Juno. He stared. “ _I_ am sorry. I apologize for pressuring you into a situation in which you couldn’t say no. I am sorry for asking you to pursue a future with me while not thinking that it might not be the future you wanted. I am sorry for taking advantage of you in asking when you were in a vulnerable state after Miasma’s tomb, after the Egg of Purus—” Juno looked away, and Peter felt a second stab of guilt. Those memories were painful for him, too. “I am so sorry, Juno, for all of the hurt I caused you, and I hope you can forgive me.”

“I—” Juno began haltingly, and then shook his head. “Yeah. Me too. I didn’t mean to lie to you, Nureyev, but I thought I wanted to go with you at the time. After…everything.”

“I didn’t mean to put you in that situation, Juno, and I have been sorry about it for every night since,” Peter swallowed. “And I didn’t mean to put you in this one, Juno. I’ll take my leave when the coast is clear. I am sorry for entering your life once more. I promise you’ll never see me again, Juno.”

Peter listened for a moment, and he heard no HCPD sirens. “Ah. Well, it appears that the coast has indeed cleared,” he said, cracking the barest of smiles. “I’ll be on my way then.”

Peter went back out to the living room, and crossed it in three quick strides—it really was a small apartment. He wedged the window open once more. The faint sounds of the city leaked into Juno’s home: a car horn, footsteps from the walkway below, a far-off blaster shot.

Juno had said nothing; Peter wasn’t even sure if he was still in the kitchen or if he had walked away.

He tried not to make himself care.

“Well,” Peter said, hand on the windowsill. “I guess this is goodbye, detective.” He glanced behind him one last time, and saw Juno. A tired silhouette in the kitchen doorway, his face in shadow. _Good_. Peter wasn’t sure if he could bear to see Juno’s face as he took his leave. He pushed up the window and—

“Wait.”

Peter turned as quickly as his body would permit.

“I thought I wanted to go with you, back in Miasma’s tomb,” Juno said quietly. “I might not want to leave this goddamn city, but I don’t want to leave you, either.”

Somehow, impossibly, a smile began to take shape on Peter’s face. “I don’t want to leave you either, detective. I thought it was what you wanted.”

“Yeah, well. You thought wrong,” Juno replied, low. Breathlessly. “I missed you every day since I walked out of that hotel room, and I am so goddamn _sorry_ —”

Peter cut off his words with a kiss.

He tried to be gentle, but after Juno’s momentary startle, their kiss was anything but chaste.

Juno tasted like cheap whiskey and sweat and leather and like all of the heavenly bodies in the sky. Peter could have melted in that kiss, in those lips, forever.

When they finally parted, Juno whispered, hesitantly, “Would you…stay? It doesn’t have to be forever, or hell, even for the night, but—”

“Anything, Juno. Anything for you. Today and always.”

Peter kissed Juno again, and it felt like he was coming home at last.

* * *

When Peter woke up, he felt warmth.

The man in bed with him stirred, making the soft sounds of deep sleep. Peter opened his eyes slowly, taking in the small room. Neon lights streamed in through the cracked window. Two sets of clothes were discarded on the floor. An old scratched desk sat in the corner, piles of papers detailing murders and crimes sitting on top.

The man next to him was breathing deeply, evenly. Peacefully, in a way Peter was sure he hadn’t slept in months.

The extraordinary thing about the man fast asleep next to him was just that he was there. With Peter.

Peter reached over across the worn blanket and gently traced Juno Steel’s jaw. Traced his lips. Ran his fingers over every visible scar and bruise on his face—every scar that had been there back when they saw each other last, and every scar that was new. His hand came to a rest over Juno’s heart, where Peter was sure there were scars he could not yet see.

Peter pressed his lips to Juno’s forehead and tried to kiss away the pain he had caused.

Juno shifted underneath him. “Nureyev?” he breathed.

 _Oh, Juno_ , Peter thought. He looked peaceful, for once in his life. Content, even. Both of his feet were still firmly in dreams; the weight of the world not yet settled on his shoulders.

“Shhh,” Peter murmured, kissing him again. “Go back to sleep.”

A faint smile appeared on Juno’s lips, and he drifted off once more.

Peter closed his eyes again, leaving his hand pressed over Juno’s heart. As close as he could be, trying to keep Juno from leaving again to fight all of the injustices in the world. And when he decided he needed to go be a hero—in an hour, a week, a month—this time, Peter would match him. Step for step, shot for shot, Peter decided he would stay.

The galaxy could wait for another day. Peter would travel it again, but not without Juno Steel by his side.

When Peter fell asleep, he wasn’t alone.

For the first time in so long, Peter wasn’t alone.


End file.
